Pride & Joie_The Continuation

by M. E. Carter

  “Nope,” she replies. “I follow Joie’s life.” A real, genuine grin crosses his face. “I’m Amanda. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “Well, now that you have company, I’m gonna get out of your hair.” She reaches over the side of the couch and grabs her purse. “You guys have fun tonight. And you”—she points at me while walking past us to the door—“don’t forget what I said.”

  I nod at her, appreciative that she helped me refocus myself.

  Once the door locks behind her, I turn to face Jack again.

  “I hope it’s okay that I came by unannounced,” he apologizes. “I know Stevens’s got an eight o’clock tomorrow morning, so I figured it would probably be safe by now.”

  Walking up to him, I kiss him gently again. “I’m glad you did. I missed you. Did you have fun in Wisconsin?”

  “We won, so it was a great time.” He pulls back and looks into my eyes. I can tell he’s making sure it’s okay that he’s here. “You want to try this new cuisine with me?”

  “More than anything,” I say, and guide him farther into my house. Where he stays all night long.

  She shifts under the sheets, waking me from a good night’s sleep. It’s been ten days since I’ve been with Joie this way. I missed it more than I realized I would. After last night, I’m hopeful we won’t go another ten days.

  As my eyes begin to focus, I take in how fucking pretty she is. Dark skin that covers her from head to toe, unlike my farmer’s tan that boasts lily white under my clothes. Dark, wavy hair that’s fanned out behind her while she sleeps. Dark pink lips that are just slightly pursed. She looks nothing like my blond-haired, blue-eyed late wife.

  Not that there’s a comparison. They are their own individuals with their own strengths and weaknesses. Their own dreams and motivations. To compare them would be to do a disservice to both women. But I can’t deny it’s different to lie next to someone who is so dark to my light. I like the contrast.

  And I like Joie.

  And I really like being inside her.

  “What are you looking at” she asks sleepily, eyes still closed, making me chuckle.

  I reach out and roll her over, pulling her toward me so we can spoon. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  “I’m not. Not really.” She yawns so big, I’m almost afraid she’ll break her jaw. “What time is it?”

  “About six.” I kiss her neck and snuggle back into her.

  “Mmm. That means I’m late. I should probably get up.” Her words hold no real conviction when she doesn’t make any move to get out of bed. Not that I’m complaining.

  And as much as I don’t want to, a few minutes later, I play the role of responsible adult and bring up the time again. “When do you have to leave for class?”

  “In a little less than an hour.” She sighs but I’m not sure if it’s with contentment or of reservation. “I’m trying to decide if I can get away with missing a day of class. It’s just one day.”

  I chuckle lightly. “You know you would be pissed at yourself later if you skipped.”

  “Stop being the voice of reason,” she reprimands playfully.

  “How about this?” I suggest. “I’ll get up, run us a hot shower, wash you from head to toe, maybe dirty you up just a bit”—I feel a giggle from deep in her chest at the suggestion—“and I’ll even spring for coffee at Starbucks on our way into town.”

  “That sounds like a fantastic idea,” she replies. “But I’ll help you run that hot shower. If I wait for you to tell me it’s ready, I’ll fall back asleep.”

  “Deal.”

  We take our time, peeling ourselves out of bed and heading toward the bathroom. She’s still asleep enough that I have to practically drag her as she shuffles behind me. When I turn on the spray, she folds her arms across her chest and leans into me so I can hold her up while we wait for the water to get hot. Fortunately, we never bothered to put clothes back on last night, so we don’t have to mess with getting undressed. I’m not sure Joie has enough balance yet to do it without injuring herself.

  “You’re not a morning person, are you?”

  She shakes her head, making me chuckle.

  Even when the water is warm enough to climb in and stand underneath the spray, we stay just like this . . . her snuggled into me with my arms wrapped around her back, the warmth of the steam billowing around us.

  Unfortunately, a few short minutes is all we can spare, so once again I play the role of responsible adult and grab her loofa sponge and some shower gel, soaping it up so I can soap her up as well. Okay, maybe I’m not that responsible.

  “I’m glad you stayed last night,” she admits, as she leans back into the water, getting her hair wet while I wash down her neck, over her small breasts, down her stomach to her mound, where she finally bats my hands away and grabs the loofa out of my hands and trades places with me.

  “I was surprised you wanted me to stay.”

  “I always want you to stay, Jack.”

  Wiping the water out of my eyes, I smile at her, loving the intimacy that watching her shower brings. It’s such a mundane, everyday thing to do, yet I feel so honored that it’s me she chose to be with when she does it. Not surprisingly, watching the water sluice down her curves also turns me on. I can’t help but kiss her neck when she turns away from me. She groans her approval.

  “I wasn’t sure what would happen since Stevens is still being a piss-ant.”

  Her fingers run through my hair and my hands begin exploring the front of her body—pinching her pebbled nipples, down her soft stomach, through her private curls.

  “Can we not talk about my son when your finger is”—she gasps at my touch and moves her legs farther apart—“right where I want it. Jack, we’re gonna be late.”

  I hmph. “I’ll be quick, baby. That’s why it’s called a morning quickie.”

  “Okay,” she breathes, still tugging on my hair.

  I smile against her skin and turn her to face the wall. “Put your hands on the tile, baby. This is gonna be fast.”

  She complies and even leans forward a bit so her ass is sticking out, perfectly positioned for my hands to rub up and down her cheeks. But I know we have a time limit and I want to maximize my efforts, so I quickly line my dick up to her and push inside. We both groan at the feeling and are soon lost in each other.

  Of course, a dirty shower means having to scrub down all over again, but it’s a small price to pay for that kind of wake-up call.

  “So what’s on tap for today?” I ask once we maneuver to the middle of the large bathroom to get dressed. It’s funny how we haven’t been dating that long, but we still instinctively move around each other, almost like a well-coordinated play. She shifts when I reach for a belt here. I lean when she extends for a bra there. Both of us move when we stretch for a toothbrush over there.

  “I have a quiz in my lit class,” she answers as she puts on mascara. I have no idea how she can talk with her mouth being that wide open. “I should get my grade back from my biology test today. And that’s the most exciting thing happening.”

  “What time are you finished?”

  She sighs. “Not until late. I have my study group tonight at eight-thirty.”

  I don’t look up as I thread my belt through the loops of my jeans. I’m glad I had the foresight to bring an overnight bag. It would suck to have to go home to change. But it would be even worse to show up at work wearing the same thing I left in last night. “I hope you have someone walk you to your car. You are done way too late at night to walk by yourself.”

  “Aw, are you nervous for me?”

  I shoot her a look that says, “Duh.” “I know Flinton is a safe town, but it’s still easy to find victims on a college campus. Haven’t you heard how high crime rates are at universities?”

  “I concede,” she jokes, but I know there’s truth in the statement. “I will make sure someone walks me to my car. I’m sure Brian won’t mind.”

 
I narrow my eyes at the thought. “You tell him to keep his shitty little hands off you, or I’ll condition him until he can’t move those hands again.”

  “Yes, Jack,” Joie says through a laugh. “I’ll make sure my son’s friend knows this cougar is off limits.”

  “You’d better.” I slap her on the ass, making her squeal.

  “Anyway,” she continues while packing up her makeup, “what do you have planned for today?”

  “Mostly a light workout at practice. We have game tapes to watch, so Hank and I will go over them before we rake them all over the coals for all the mistakes that were made at the game this weekend.”

  Joie rolls her eyes. “I watched the game. There weren’t any mistakes.”

  “Maybe they weren’t mistakes as much as there are things that could have been done better.”

  “I can agree with that. Give ’em hell, baby.”

  I gasp, eyes widening. “Did you just say h-e-double-hockey-sticks? The prim and proper Joie Stevens just . . . just cussed?”

  She giggles. “And don’t you forget it, mister. And also, don’t tell anyone.”

  I snort a laugh. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, she gets visibly agitated. “Crap. I don’t have time to blow dry my hair. I’m gonna look like a mess today.”

  “Wear it back in that bandana thingy you have.”

  She furrows her brow at me. “You mean like when I’m cleaning the house?”

  I shrug. “Sure. I think it looks cute on you.” Smiling, I pull her to me and give her a chaste kiss. “Like a pinup model.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “You think that’s what I look like?” I nod. “Like I came straight out of a different time.” I nod again. “When wearing a bandana was an everyday thing because all women were supposed to do was clean house and take care of their man?” I smile . . .

  And then frown. “How the hell did that just turn on me?”

  Joie bursts out laughing and pulls away, grabbing the aforementioned cloth and some bobby pins. “I’m just kidding. But you set yourself up for that.”

  “I suppose I did.” Leaning against the wall, now that I’m ready to go, I watch as she situates her hair exactly like I like it. “I’ll have to watch myself around you. First the cow comment, now this.”

  “I may look nice and motherly, but I’m a sneaky one.”

  “I like being kept on my toes.”

  She catches my eye in the mirror, smiling at me and finishes getting ready. Despite sleeping in and a morning quickie, we walk out the door, hand-in-hand, only five minutes late. I even make good on that Starbucks run.

  My brain is fried. I mean, break-me-open, scramble-me-up, throw-me-in-the-pan, and cook-for-five-minutes fried.

  That may be a slight exaggeration, but we’ve been studying identity theories for the past hour-and-a-half straight, and I’m pretty sure my brain is turning into mush. Don’t get me wrong, I love my educational psychology class. It’s interesting, and the professor is fun. But with three classes, two observations, and a study group every single week, not to mention the massive observation project due next month, it’s exhausting.

  I suppose I’m grateful for the reminder that this is nothing compared to teaching two dozen kindergartners every day. I’m just building up my endurance. But on nights like tonight, it’s hard to remind myself that knowing all the parts of James Marcia’s Identity Status Theory will actually be important someday. Especially since Isaac was in grade school, I’ve been planning to teach early childhood education and not adolescents.

  Brian practically groans in my ear as he takes a second bite of a pumpkin-spiced muffin. I stare at him, thinking, On second thought, maybe I’ll have more interaction with adolescents than I initially believed.

  He catches me staring and his chewing slows while he shifts his eyes back and forth, looking around. “What? I thought you brought these for us to eat.”

  “I did,” I admit, slightly embarrassed that I got caught gawking at him. In my defense though, he eats a regular-sized muffin in two bites. It’s kind of fascinating to watch. “Sorry. Just lost in thought. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” He swallows his bite and take a long drink of his water before focusing his attention on me. Well, part of his attention. He’s still shooting gazes at the rest of the snacks. “What’s up?”

  “You guys have a home game Thanksgiving weekend, right?”

  He makes a face. “Don’t remind me. Coach keeps bitching about it.”

  Which coach? Surely Jack would have said something if he was upset. Wouldn’t he? “Why is he mad?” I ask. “Don’t you guys play that weekend every year?”

  He shrugs and finally caves, grabbing another muffin and peeling the paper away. I guess my special recipe is a hit. Okay, fine. I got it off Rachel Ray’s website and prayed really hard they wouldn’t end up being a Pinterest fail. But I make a mental note to bake them again, just for him.

  Brian and I haven’t necessarily become close. But being in the same class and study group, we’ve developed a relationship of sorts. He reminds me of Amanda’s son, except more motivated and successful. And knowing his family is so far away makes my mom-heart ache a bit. I find myself wanting to do the little things to make him not feel so homesick.

  Hence, sneaking more baked goods into the library.

  “All I know is he keeps grumbling about having to put up with his in-laws for an extended period of time because it’s a home game this year, and they want him to get box seats or something.”

  Ah. That must be Hank, who I haven’t met yet, but I know he’s married.

  “If you can’t go home, what are you going to do on Thanksgiving Day? Where do you eat?”

  He shrugs again and crams the rest of the muffin in his mouth, chewing slowly and clearly enjoying it before finally answering me. “We’ll probably see if a Chinese food place is open. Or maybe get some pizza.”

  My jaw drops open. “You mean the school doesn’t have some sort of dinner for you?”

  “Not that I know of. From what I hear, they used to have a real Thanksgiving dinner for those of us who couldn’t make it home. Someone would cater in turkey and dressing and all the fixings. That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t know if it’s actually true or why they stopped.”

  I furrow my brow as I take in all the information. I wonder why no one ever thought to feed these boys on Thanksgiving. Was it too expensive? Did they not think it was important enough to factor into a budget?

  “How many of you are staying in town over the holidays?” I ask, the wheels in my brain turning rapidly. I don’t know if anyone would be opposed to me hosting something at my house, but I know who to ask.

  He looks up as he thinks. “Uh . . . five or six of us, maybe? Not that many.” He side-eyes me like he can see the ideas racing through my head. “How come you’re so interested in this?”

  I flash him a bright smile and feign indifference, while grabbing for my phone. “No reason. Just curious is all.” Turning to my phone, I begin typing out a text.

  “Uh huh,” Brian replies. “I don’t believe you, but these muffins are too good for me to care right now.”

  I snort when he grabs for a fourth helping while I text. Good thing everyone else already ate one before stretching their legs on what’s turning into a very long break. They may not get another at the rate he’s going.

  Me: Hey. How come no one provides Thanksgiving dinner to the players who are stuck in town over the holiday?

  Jack: Is that pansy ass complaining about not getting fed? Tell him he’s gonna have a hard time chasing down a running back if he packs more on around the middle.

  Me: Lol. No. He’s completely happy with the muffins I smuggled into the library. I’m just curious why no one does it.

  Jack: Actually, Sheila used to be in charge of putting together a dinner. I had forgotten until now.

  My eyebrows shoot up. Jack’s late wife used to coordinate this
event? No wonder they stopped doing it. Now I feel bad for asking. But not bad enough to drop it. There goes my mom-heart taking over again.

  Me: Would it be weird if I hosted something at my house?

  Jack: Why would that be weird?

  Me: Because Sheila used to do it. Is that stepping on her toes or something? I don’t want it to seem like I’m moving in on her territory or anything.

  Jack: Considering you’re the mom of one of kids who would take advantage of the meal, it doesn’t feel like it to me. Who gives a shit what it looks like to anyone else?

  Me: So it’s okay with you if I start making plans? I feel really bad for these kids. Brian’s talking about eating Chinese. That’s just sad!

  Jack: You mean like they did in A Christmas Story? Fa ra ra ra ra? Man, I love that movie.

  Me: Lol. Focus, Coach.

  Jack: Sorry. Yeah, it should be fine. Let me hook you up with Renee, Hank’s wife. I know the dinners used to go through the boosters, and they had a bunch of it donated by local businesses. So if you’re not opposed to having a few extra athletes from other sports at your house, they’ll pay for it and then we can be 100% sure it doesn’t violate some weird NCAA rule.

  Me: That would be great! Thanks, babe. Gotta run. We’re about to start again.

  Jack: No problem. Learn well. And bring some muffins home with you! I could eat your muffins all day every day.

  Me: Don’t be dirty.

  Jack: gasp I can’t believe you think I had my mind in the gutter! Okay, fine. I did. You win. Bring the muffins anyway.

  I snicker as I shut my phone off, but when I see Brian sitting back in his chair, the stunned expression on his face directed at me, I’m immediately on alert. “What? Why do you look like that?”

  Leaning forward, he whisper-yells, “You’re dating Coach?!”

  I shush him, looking around to make sure no one else heard him. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh please. Don’t even deny it. I saw your phone.”

  I gape at him, trying to change tactics. “What are you doing looking over my shoulder at my phone? That’s very rude, ya know.”